Changes
by Cosmos of the sun
Summary: Sam didn't come out unchanged, but it's alright, he has help.
1. Chapter 1

I figured that I might as well post it here since I've already posted in on livejournal. Anyway I hope you enjoy it!

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He called them by different numbers starting with Secondus, it didn't seem right to assign any of them the number one- _Primus drifted through an abyss till he sighted_- and so they were two through nine. They don't seem to mind, and they cling to their new names as only one who has forgotten theirs can.

Characters no longer stream in front of his eyes, they are moderated for him and as he writes them in his notebook, there sounds and meanings are whispered into his thoughts and he finds himself translating in his own head - _contributed to its creation even though stars shrieked in his grasp_- and understanding blooms were uncertainty lurked.

He wasn't able to think in just English anymore there was always something else in the background, characterized by whistles, clicks, churrs, growls, chirps and purrs. Sense and understanding came gradually, unknowingly till Ratchet asked for a scan and in distemper he clicked, his answer was a tirade of sound from the tired medic till his dazed expression was noticed and a apology was issued by Ratchet for switching into Cybertrionian. He didn't know that his befuddlement came from being able to understand the rant rather than being subjected to it.

He types his notebook to a document on the computer when he has the chance. English sprawls across his screen with concept words in italics to retrieve as much of the meaning that English can give. He saves it on a flash drive he carries with him. It was a gift from his mother when he bought his school supplies, 8 gigs and shaped like a space ship. Its name is printed on the side, A.R.C., and he knows that it came from the kid's supplies section, and that it is in the same package as a mermaid one, but for some reason he no longer minds.

One of them likes to sing at night. When the stars are bright and the night is clear and at its peak, a croon will slowly start and swell till it seems that all of the stars are singing in his head. He asked once where the songs came from and only received a response for two, one was a call to a lover to return - _dream of you till your return, my dark one, my spark_ – and the other the expression joy felt reunion – _hold you close, you are mine alone till time ends, you bring light – _but both were as old and as lost as memory.

Sometimes he reaches for something and is unable to grasp it, his fingers seem to be lacking a 3rd joint his subconscious was certain was there. Some nights he stands up from his desk and finds himself stumbling, his knees bending forward instead of back. He finds himself hunching his back slightly when nervous or anxious, but there are no wings to flair.

They don't realize that he understands what they say, and he feels no need to let them know. If he does Optimus will stop praying when he enters the room because his doubts will be heard, Bee won't talk to himself anymore because it wouldn't fit the image he tries to portray, and Ratchet and Ironhide will watch their words to each other. If they need to know he will let them.

Besides something tells him the time isn't right.


	2. Chapter 2

They settled down more as time went on, discovering places in his mind where they could cling to his being, so they could allow themselves to rest. He didn't have to fight so hard to keep what he knew separate from what they knew. But that just might be because in some instances he had trouble telling where the line was. But on days where their presences lit up in his mind, like light houses on a dark sea, he found it easier to separate their voices from his own. Hidden for so long in the dark and the nothingness their personalities where fragmented, but the six fitted with each other closely to make something, mostly, whole.

It takes time for him to understand the personal pronouns they use. He notices that Ironhide gets one set, Ratchet and Bee another, and the other Autobots seem to be addressed with three different sets depending on their actions at a given time. Humans, he notes, had one set of them originally, but as time passes one becomes two as they see more, but his set doesn't match any of those. Instead it is the one they use to refer to each other, and to Optimus. He doesn't realize it at first, too caught up in the difference between English and Cybertronian, but it lurks in the back of his mind. Some part of him suspects why they do it but to acknowledge it would be admitting too much.

The nightmares come often, too similar to when he returned from the first war. But he doesn't mind them so much now. He is disconnected in a way, but when he occasionally falls through that veil and his sanity starts to shred, he is pulled back. Then for a time all he could do is feel and bask in the impossible warmth of their sparks and croons; it is enough for him to fall into a dreamless sleep and stitch himself back together.

But on night when his dreams are not a horrific replay of his failures, where death is painted across the landscape in shades of light glinted and dark shaded metal drenched in blood, he finds himself in a different kind of battle.

His opponent is never the same, but is also never anyone else. Sometimes it is an indefinable beast, its features shifting like a figure behind rain drenched glass. He is reminded of a crazed lion as it hunts him though the bush, ignoring the easier prey just to drink of his blood and eat of his flesh. Other times it is a man, hair the color of knives and polished guns, his face a mural shifting between the features of the people he fears and those that he respects. The figure might be that of a human but he is still echoes the beast and his mangled words and laughter insight the same reaction. But, sometimes the beast and the man are made of metal, no less real and he is still prey to be hunted, conquered, and devoured.

Often he runs, certain that he is not yet ready to face this foe. But, sometimes he runs only to look for higher ground, so that when the time comes for an ambush he will be just as, if not more, deadly. Other times, when he is at the end of line, when his fear vanishes and all he wants to do is force out his rage and bloodlust in the tempo battle, he stands his ground. Then his opponent comes to him with a roar of triumph and a bearing of fangs, no matter the form, and they follow the dance of their instincts; their jewelry is the flash of steel and the ribbons are splatters of blood.

But, no matter circumstances, or the outcome of these dreams, when he looks down there are flames on his chest. When he forces himself awake and lies between the reality of day and the mystery of night he is certain that it is a just symbol for his battle and determination stitched on a red shirt.

He ignores the fact that, sometimes, the texture is too smooth to be thread.


End file.
